


You will die

by Quilljoy



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Farfarello (mentioned), M/M, Mild Gore, Schuldig (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6862513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crawford saves a disgruntled assassin. There's a future waiting for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You will die

“Why are you doing this?” 

Crawford stops, finger tapping against his thigh in a sign of annoyance. It’s the wrong question. Weiss will, one day, start asking the right ones, but it’s worrisome to think it’s dawning closer than Crawford first predicted.

Weiss looks at him. Though Crawford’s otherwise occupied, Weiss stares: green eyes unwavering. Sweat pooling on his brow, and above his lip. There’s a flinch that betrays tension. Weiss’ jaw tightens as Crawford peels off his black shirt – darker still and damp with blood – and lays pressure below his chest.

Blood oozes from the wound. It seems to stop, before it coughs up again, another spurt of red that looks just as dark as their surrounding. It slips between Crawford’s fingers and slides down his wrists. He hadn’t thought to slid his cuffs higher before, and Crawford will pay for it, but it’s a gamble he doesn’t mind when he foresees the consequences for such a small sacrifice.

If it bothers Weiss to have an enemy’s hands above him, it doesn’t show. The concern gracing his features is for the teammates long gone; Crawford doesn’t have to be a mind reader to pick up on that. It only amuses him that the two of them share the same worry, if only for entirely different reasons. His sleeves are fast growing wet. He’d rather show no one his endgame. And Schuldig, while not responsible for the gaping hole where taut muscle should be, would show delight in finishing Farfarello’s job – even more so if it ruined his plans. Finish Weiss. Taunt him. Crawford would chid the man beneath him for his skittish glances when he thought Crawford not to be looking. They had worse things to worry about than Schwarz finding the rest of Weiss. Him finding them, for example.

Crawford would never live it down. It’d be worse for Weiss, sure, but Schuldig would not let him forget. 

He wipes away at the brown hair, plastered to a forehead slick with sweat. Weiss’ heartbeat, which reverberated so violently against his ribcage, and which Crawford could hear with his hands splayed above him, and nearly inside him, had slowed into a fading cadency. 

Crawford takes note of the pale face, of the coldness to his looks and the warmth ebbing away, as hard as he tries to trap it beneath his fingertips.

Weiss isn’t dead enough to stop making questions. 

“Why?” He insists. 

Crawford’s tired. He picks up Weiss’ hand, tearing the glove away from his fingers, and though Weiss puts up resistance, it’s more for show than for fight – a struggle born out of masculine pride, he thinks, and the same anger he picks up coming in waves from the man. Schuldig calls them kittens and thinks he’s so clever about it. It makes Crawford scoff. There’s nothing in front of him but a killer, and the second he let Weiss go is the second he will charge.

With one hand still keeping pressure on the wound, he takes Weiss’ other hand, and does the same. The bagh nakhs are discarded for later. 

There will be a later.

He forces Weiss’ hands above his wounds. They go slack, though Crawford sees him trying.

He ought to try harder.

Crawford rummages through garbage while conscious about the clock ticking away. It mocks him as he flings documents on the floor and empties desks under Weiss’ suspicious gaze. It’s because he can see the future he’s so weak to the tides of time.

He finds a stapler, sitting unused in its box, entirely empty. Crawford nearly wrecks the damn thing against the wall and, should Schuldig see him now (he is looking, Crawford can feel him scratching against the back of his head, always trying to force his way in, always scratching), he’d have to endure the mocking for his lack of control. He’d have to endure Weiss, dead.

That can’t happen. Not the way he’s planned it.

It’s because he’s so unlike to Mastermind and Berserker that he contains the rage. It’s because the Japanese killer keeps fighting on, as if he’s got the right to it. Crawford steals him a glance as he looks for the staples. He looks sickly under the office incandescent light. Much better than the man at his side, a corporate thug, stripped from top to bottom of his innards. His claws had torn chunks of flesh. The smell of it clings to Weiss like perfume. 

Weiss blinks. He isn’t dead yet, at least. 

Crawford finds the staples.

Weiss hurries at peeling the remainder of cloth, twisting his shirt into a knot and tucking it inside his mouth. He does it with the eased practice of a soldier. Schuldig’s been wrong all along, with his “kittens”, when Weiss are nothing more than Kritiker’s dogs napping at their heels. Inconvenient. 

But even dogs have their uses, eventually.

“Good,” Crawford draws closer. “I don’t need to tell you what happens if you scream.” 

Weiss nods. Ken Hidaka, Crawford files, best to remember the name. Though they’re all Weiss to him, not every one of them share the same purpose, and once he’s done piercing Hidaka’s flesh together, and the man feverishly clings to his suit, mumbling the question, over and over, Crawford replies:

“Because you will die. But first, you will come with me.”


End file.
